


A Fereldan Carol

by mille_libri



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 11:12:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5203652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loghain Mac Tir was having his best day of the Blight ... until Maric's ghost showed up and informed him that three more spirits would be interrupting Loghain's peaceful night's sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stave 1

Maric was dead, to begin with. That had started all this mess, Loghain reflected darkly. If the impetuous fool hadn’t taken off in that ship none of this would have happened. Maric would never have been in the front lines at Ostagar, the way Cailan had been, Loghain told himself as he slogged through the muddy streets of Denerim. It rained all the time these days, as though he had brought his own personal thundercloud with him when he’d taken up residence in this Maker-forsaken den of blackguards and fools. 

Two of those fools, thorns in Loghain’s side for months now, had finally been captured. As the doors of Fort Drakon opened before him, Loghain felt a small amount of satisfaction. And gratitude to his daughter Anora and his lieutenant, Ser Cauthrien, for managing to put Maric’s bastard and his companion, that Cousland puppy, behind bars. With those two out of the way, maybe Ferelden could finally make some headway against the darkspawn.

As he approached the cell, the two nearly naked occupants scrambled to their feet, standing at attention. Despite their wounds and the filthy smallclothes, there was a dignity about the two young men, one so fair and one so dark. Loghain was struck again at the extraordinary resemblance the bastard bore to Maric. Cailan had looked like his father … but this one, this Alistair, was Maric all over again.

“Teyrn Loghain.” It was the Cousland, impatient and imperious, like all his ilk. “Is there something we can do for you?”

“I believe you’ve done it already,” he said, nodding at the bars that imprisoned them. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to have turned yourselves in after Ostagar, saved us all the time and trouble you’ve caused?”

“We’ve caused!” It was the bastard, his hands gripping the bars of the cage, white-knuckled. “You dare to speak to us of Ostagar, after what you did?”

“Alistair,” the Cousland said, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. The bastard subsided, but his eyes still blazed. “Loghain, what do you want down here?” said the Cousland brusquely. “You need the Grey Wardens to end the Blight—we all know that. So either let us out now so we can finish this, or get out of the country and wait for the horde to come for you.”

It was funny, Loghain reflected, looking at the two of them, how much they reminded him of himself and Maric at their age. What a long time ago that seemed, their whole lives ahead of them. Loghain shook his head impatiently. No time for mooning about like a ninny. “I just wanted to be sure you two were comfortable down here.” 

“Peachy,” the bastard sneered sullenly. “Just like being back in the Chantry.”

“Well, you should feel right at home then,” Loghain said. He turned his back to them, leaving the jail cell. Whatever had possessed that fool of an Eamon to send Maric’s son to the Templars? It never ceased to amaze Loghain that Rowan, who’d had the heart of a lion, had such milksops for brothers. He supposed Teagan wasn’t too bad, but Eamon was the most hidebound stuck-in-the-past old fogy Loghain had ever had to deal with. 

It was a relief to exit the dungeons, smelling as they did of blood and sweat and excrement. Almost as much a relief as knowing that the Grey Wardens were safely under lock and key. Loghain strode through the ever-present drizzle toward the Alienage. Even if he hadn’t known where it was, the smell would have led him there. It was only marginally better than the dungeons, and the sounds, the shriekings and moanings, were worse. 

Looking neither right nor left, but always wary—most of the elves were pretty downtrodden, but some still had the energy to band together—Loghain strode through the filth, ignoring the dead dogs and other refuse that lay strewn across the ground. His destination was a small shack, impossible to differentiate from the other shacks if it weren’t for the forbidding men in Tevinter robes standing guard.

The Tevinters stepped aside as Loghain approached, allowing him to go up the rickety steps and through the flimsy door into the building. More Tevinters filled the room, filling out papers and inspecting the few elves in the room.

“All in good health, I presume,” Loghain said sarcastically to a dark-haired Tevinter elf in full armor. 

She snorted. “Good enough for our purposes,” she said. “Come to count your money?”

“I have.” He bent over the desks, checking the logs. Regrettable, really, selling good Fereldan elves to the Tevinters, but the country’s coffers were nearly empty, thanks to Cailan’s constant extravagances. There had to be a way to make money, to rebuild the country. As he straightened up, he thought of Maric again, thought of how cocksure they had been that once they took the country back, everything would be fine. Typical Maric, Loghain thought with an irritated sigh, to die young and escape all this, leaving it to Loghain to clean up the mess. Again.

He made his way back out of the Alienage in the gathering darkness. Denerim was dreary enough during the day, but at night it became downright squalid. He would be glad to get back to the palace.

As he crossed a muddy street, Loghain thought he saw Maric standing in a doorway on the other side. His first thought was that some idiot had let the Grey Wardens escape. Loghain sped up, anger fueling his steps, but by the time he reached the doorway, no one was there. He shook his head. Clearly he had missed his dinner time—hunger must be addling his wits.

The meal was being served by the time he reached the dining room in the palace. Anora was waiting in her place, her napkin already in her lap. She looked up, smiling tightly, as he came in. “Father. How was your day?”

“Most excellent. And yours?”

“I barely escaped Rendon Howe’s home with my life, and you used me as a cats-paw to capture two men. Something shy of excellent.”

Loghain’s head snapped up, staring at her. Anora’s eyes were downcast, and she leaned forward to pick up her soup spoon. The great bulk of her belly, where Cailan’s child awaited birth, got in her way, and she put the spoon down, pushing the plate back with a sigh.

“May I remind you, my dear, that had you stayed in the castle as I ordered you to do, Rendon Howe would not have been able to hold you hostage.”

She threw her napkin aside, and putting her fists on the table, she rose, glaring at him. “I am the Queen of Ferelden! It is my place to be among my people, not stuck here in the palace like some kind of fancy doll.”

“And I told you I would take care of it. There’s no reason for you to distress yourself.” He ate a spoonful of soup, unperturbed by her outburst.

“What kind of a child do you think I am?”

“My child. And you’ll do as I say.” He was concerned for her, getting herself worked up this way. Much better for him to take care of her so she wouldn’t have to worry about anything.

Anora stared at him angrily for a moment, then turned on her heel and waddled hastily from the room.

Loghain finished his meal, regretting the coolness between himself and his daughter. What he did, he did for her, for his grandchild, and for Ferelden. He wished she could see that. Perhaps she would, in time, once the babe had arrived. 

He stretched out in a chair before the fire in his quarters. The palace was quiet by this time, and, save for an occasional shriek or burst of drunken laughter, so was Denerim. So Loghain was perfectly able to hear the bell ringing at the front door. The ringing went on for an inordinately long time. Loghain idly wondered where all the servants were. It kept on until Loghain couldn’t tell if the ringing was real or just in his ears. Eventually it was replaced by another sound—a steady drip drop that seemed to be coming closer down the hall. 

Loghain sat tensely forward in his chair, listening to the dripping as it grew louder. Finally it stopped outside his door, and he could hear the droplets landing on the carpet on the carpet. After a long moment, in which Loghain was too fascinated to breathe, a dull thud sounded on the other side of the door. 

He was out of his chair before the reverberations ceased. “Who is it?” he called, but only more dripping replied. He stood for a long moment, considering the door and what might be on the other side of it. His interest was piqued, he admitted it, all the more so because there was no one alive who knew how the properly applied touch of whimsy could intrigue him. Another knock sounded on the door, and Loghain could smell the salty tang of seawater, the dampness seeping in under the door. “All right,” he muttered to himself, striding across the room and flinging the door open. Immediately, he recoiled.

Standing there in the hallway was Maric. A pale, bloated Maric, hung with seaweed and dripping water all over the floor. He grinned cheekily. “Miss me?”

Recovering his equanimity, Loghain peered out into the hallway past the specter. Whoever was behind this grotesque joke would pay dearly, he thought.

“Don’t bother,” Maric said. “I’m here for you.”

“Right,” Loghain drawled. “Come from your watery grave just to torment me. Of course, why would that surprise me?” He stepped back as the dripping vision entered the room, not wanting those dank clothes touching him.

“It really shouldn’t,” Maric agreed equitably. 

Loghain pinched himself surreptitiously, and Maric laughed. Loghain had a sudden vision of Maric’s son shivering naked in a cell in Fort Drakon, and frowned at his own sense of disquiet. The bastard deserved it for selling himself to those Orlesians, he told himself. 

“Something wrong?” Maric asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Just wondering what I ate to cause this disagreeable vision.”

Maric crossed the room, seaweed littering the floor where he had walked, and settled into a chair—Loghain’s chair—near the fire with a contented sigh. A rank steam rose from him as the fire’s heat met his wet skin. “I’m not a bit of underdone potato, so stop grasping at straws. Sit down, Loghain,” he said. “Don’t stand there gaping. We’re wasting time.”

“Wasting time? What else do you have?”

“I have plenty. You have very little.” Maric’s smile faded, and he sat forward, the leather of the chair squelching beneath him. “You’ve got to make this right, Loghain. Before it’s too late.”

“This is about that bastard of yours, isn’t it?”

“Alistair?” Maric’s eyes were faraway. “Not entirely.”

“Then what?”

“You and I, Loghain,” Maric began, sitting back in the chair and sending a fresh gush of water over the floor, “we did a great thing. We took our country back from the Orlesians, won peace for our people. And now look at it. Under attack from the darkspawn, in the beginning stages of civil war—it’s ripe for another takeover.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Loghain snapped. “It’s what I’m trying to prevent!”

“By selling the elves? Locking up the last two Grey Wardens? Loghain, I wasn’t a very good king. Not trained for it, not ready for it. Rowan was the ruler here, much as your Anora has been the ruler in Cailan’s stead. With Rowan gone …” Maric’s voice trailed off, and Loghain glared darkly at him. “She says hello, by the way.”

“Indeed.” Loghain refused to rise to the bait. “Get to the point, Maric.”

“All right, then, the point. You will be visited by three spirits.”

“Oh, this keeps getting better and better. This delightful interlude isn’t enough?”

“No. These three spirits will help you to guide our nation through this trial, and hopefully help you come out the other side in one piece. And at peace. Loghain,” Maric said, and his puffy drowned face looked up at the Hero of River Dane, “Ferelden is in your hands. Guide it well. Or it will go badly, not just for the country, but for you personally.”

He heaved himself up out of the chair, the bitter smell of the seaweed following him out the door. Loghain was left standing there, staring at the open door and the piles of wet seaweed left there. “When haven’t things gone badly for me personally?!” he shouted after the spirit, just to keep Maric from having the last word.


	2. Stave 2

Loghain slammed the door to his room, disgusted with himself that he had fallen victim to some weak-minded hallucination. Maric’s drowned ghost could hardly have come visiting him, he scoffed. The remaining piles of seaweed must be someone’s idea of a sick joke. Maker knew, he’d made enough enemies in his time. Not that he cared. Almost defiantly, he began stripping off his clothes, getting ready to climb into bed.  
It occurred to him, as he reached for the blankets, that Maric hadn’t said when the three spirits would be arriving. Not, he thought, that he believed in the spirits. Or in Maric’s ghost. Certainly not. But all the same, he scanned the room, still dimly lit by the fire, to reassure himself that no one was there before he sank back into the pillows.

He dropped into an unusually deep slumber, secure in the knowledge that the Grey Wardens were safe in jail, money was pouring into the country’s coffers, and Anora was taken care of here in the palace.  
Sometime later Loghain awoke when the covers were yanked off of him. “Who’s there?” he said muzzily, still half asleep. He sat up, feeling in the darkness. His hand encountered a misty damp coldness hanging in midair. He snatched the hand back with an exclamation of disgust.

Reaching to the table by the bed, Loghain struggled with a taper, trying to light the candle he kept there. His hands were shaking. “Get hold of yourself,” he muttered, finally managing to light the candle. He held it up toward the cold spot he had felt.

“Ah, so you are awake, Loghain Mac Tir.” The voice was soft, almost ethereal, definitely female.

“Get out of my room,” he growled. “I have no need of any … companionship this night.”

“You were warned to expect me,” the voice said. “Arise. We have many places to go, and we will not get there by lying abed.”

“Why don’t you go, then, and leave me in peace?”

“Are you? At peace?”

Loghain groaned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Clearly not,” he snapped, “with you chattering at my bedside.”

“Then come with me.”

He stood up, looking down at the spirit. She was an elf, swathed in a gauzy white robe, emitting a soft white light from somewhere inside her. “Do I know you?”

“I am a spirit, nothing more. My light has been with you, but my face will not be known to you.”

Loghain hastily pulled his clothes on, feeling more able to handle the situation when he was fully dressed. He turned to face her. “Where exactly do you intend to take me?” he demanded.

“If you will follow, all will be revealed.”

Really, there was little he disliked more than cryptic statements that were supposed to sound meaningful. “Is it that hard to answer a direct question?” he snapped.

In response, the spirit’s glowing white hand wrapped around his. Loghain looked down at it, somewhat surprised that her hand hadn’t slid right through his, but the train of thought was disrupted when his feet left the ground. Or, to be more accurate, the ground left his feet. 

Loghain had the sensation of standing perfectly still as the world turned around him, a blur of colors and sounds. As it began to slow, he recognized the deep greens and dusty greys of the Korcari Wilds.

He looked around him with suspicion. “What is this, spirit? Why are we here?”

“Do you not know where you are?”

“I know where we are,” he said. “I cannot imagine why we’re here, or how we arrived.”

“Is it necessary always to know how and why? Perhaps those questions will be answered on their own. If you are patient.”

“’If you are patient,’” Loghain mimicked nastily under his breath as the spirit moved ahead of him, the light that shone from her filtering through the forest. He groaned when he caught sight of the two men walking before him. Both were mud-splattered, their armor dented and worn. One young man had black hair, while the other’s was fair. “All right, spirit, what is it about my youth that is so important?”

“You must watch and listen,” the spirit rebuked him. “You will learn nothing by barreling along paying no attention to what you are passing.”

Loghain rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother to argue.

As they neared the two young men, he couldn’t help hearing their conversation. 

“Slow down, Loghain!” Maric’s voice was filled with laughter, and Loghain felt a pang in spite of himself. His friend sounded so young.

“Keep up,” he heard himself growl. 

“Do you even know where we’re going?”

Loghain watched himself turn, hands on his hips, and face Maric. “If you don’t like it, why don’t you take the lead?”

As always, Maric recoiled at the very suggestion that he might have to make a decision. “No, no, I trust you.”

Loghain snorted, watching the two young men. Even that brief exchange made their eventual futures obvious—golden Maric always in the safe places and his own dark self hovering in the shadows doing all the work. He turned to say as much to the spirit, but she was drifting ahead, following the two young men. Maric’s cheery voice kept on, the chatter a constant stream in Loghain’s ear. It was oddly soothing, actually. 

Eventually, the dark-haired young man turned to his companion. “Do you ever stop talking?” he demanded. “It’s like walking through the forest with a toddler. ‘Ooh, look, shiny!’”

Not at all insulted by this, the fair-haired man laughed. “It would be a sad child who had you for a father, Loghain.”

“As if you’d be a good parent.” Loghain’s younger self laughed darkly.

“I would try to be,” Maric said, his voice suddenly serious. “I never knew my own father. If I ever had a child, I would want him to know his father cared for him, to be taken care of and listened to and taught how to do things.”

Both Loghains stared at Maric, not used to this thoughtful side of him. The older Loghain thought of Cailan, his mind stuffed with myths and fairy tales, and then of Alistair, neglected and uncared-for. He wished Maric could have met Alistair, known that he had a son who was like him—not the one to put himself forward, the way Cailan had, but the one to always be there underfoot irritating people. 

He was still standing there when he realized the world was moving again. It rushed dizzily past him, the colors and sounds blurring together again until he could distill only a single sound from the confusion: a baby crying.

As the colors separated, he could see himself, for once out of armor, holding the crying baby. There was an expression of blank panic on his face that he was certain had never been there during battle. He jiggled the baby awkwardly, making desperate noises to try and calm her. Watching himself struggle, he wondered what Celia and the nurses were doing—why on earth they had abandoned this tender, innocent child to his hands, of all places?

From behind him, he heard her voice, soft and weary but still with indulgent humor. “She’s your daughter, Loghain!” He turned to look at her in the bed, the smooth golden hair and soft eyes familiar and yet  
strange to him after such a long time. Poor Celia, he thought, he had simply never found her interesting enough to pay attention to. “It’s not that hard.”

“Easy for you to say,” he heard himself growl. And then he watched as he lifted the squalling baby, almost as if he’d known what he was doing, cradling the small soft head in one big hand, and held her against his shoulder. “Honestly, Celia, what does an old soldier and farmer know about caring for a baby?” And miraculously, as his voice rumbled against her, the baby quieted, her eyes blinking as if they could see the older Loghain standing there watching her. His heart warmed with the same feeling of awe and wonder he remembered feeling that day.

The young Loghain leaned his rough cheek against the baby’s downy head. “I’m never going to let anything happen to you,” he said, his voice fierce but businesslike. No baby talk for Loghain Mac Tir, no goopy fawning. Manly vows of protection, instead, a promise he knew he could keep.

Now, as then, he was startled by Celia’s voice. “No, definitely don’t ever let anything happen to her. Make sure she’s sheltered and protected and never allowed to do anything. That’s sure to help her grow up to be an intelligent woman.” As the younger Loghain stared at her, she blushed, looking away. “I’m sorry, don’t mind me. I’m very tired.”

Loghain hadn’t given Celia’s comments another thought … but he could see now her gentle hand steering Anora, helping their daughter to become the strong queen it turned out Ferelden had needed. He’d always thought less of Cailan for leaning on Anora, for allowing Anora to make so many decisions and advise him. It occurred to Loghain that instead, perhaps he should have thought more of Anora, given her more credit.

He looked at Celia with new eyes, as well. Had Celia spent their entire marriage chafing at being treated as a delicate possession to be carefully handled? Why had he never known that before? He took a step toward his wife, feeling a tenderness flood through him.

And the room began to blur around him, the kaleidoscope of colors shifting as the world went by. He heard the crackle of a fire and smelled the wood smoke as the colors slowly distilled. He threw up his hands, shaking his head as the faces of those clustered around the campfire began to come clear.

“So,” he said to the spirit, “you’re going to show me the night elves. This will remind me that I became very close to them during the rebellion, and make me feel guilty about selling them. Don’t you think I already feel guilty? Shouldn’t you know that? You’re a spirit!”

“The scenes are for you to interpret. I am here as your guide, nothing more,” she said quietly. Her serene smile and the steady soft glow of her light began to irritate Loghain. He looked back at the fire, against his will picking out faces and remembering names. Adriel, who fletched the best arrows; Shen, with the long scar down his face and the glowing green eyes; Cyrion, who could make a filling meal for the entire group out of a surprisingly small amount of ingredients. 

As he watched, he saw himself come near the fire, hunkering down to bask in its warmth. “Cyrion,” he said jovially, “have you done it yet?”

The other elves grinned, and Cyrion blushed scarlet. “How can I?” he asked quietly. “I may know how to use a bow, but I am more at home in a kitchen than on a battlefield. What have I to offer a fierce fighter like Adaia?”

“They say the way to a warrior’s heart is through her stomach,” the young Loghain pointed out, grinning. “Perhaps when she comes in from her watch, you could declare yourself? For all our sakes. We’d like something to celebrate.” There was a chorus of approval from the other elves, and Cyrion’s face relaxed into a smile.

“Maybe I will, at that,” he said. Something about Cyrion’s face teased at Loghain’s memory. He walked closer, peering at him. 

“Maker’s blood!” he said, stepping backward. “That’s not possible!” He knew now where he had seen that face recently: locked in a cage in the Alienage. What was a night elf doing in the Alienage? Loghain thought to himself in despair. Were there others there? Had he sold his own men?

He turned on the spirit. “Your light shows lies,” he said. “This cannot be! I will not be duped by some … trick, some magicked-up illusion.” 

“What will you do, then?” Her voice was unchanged, but she took a step back as he moved toward her.

“I will see what is behind this mask,” he growled. His hands reached toward her, grasping at her billowing white robes. They seemed to be surrounding him, and he struggled with the fabric, trying to get free.  
And gradually he realized he was struggling with his own bedcovers. With an oath, he untangled himself. He realized he was soaked with sweat, which came as almost a relief. Nightmare, clearly. His dreams must have taken him to some injudicious place in the Fade. Nothing to worry about. Still, as he straightened the covers and rolled over to go back to sleep, he saw the faces of Cyrion, Anora, and Alistair in the darkness.


	3. Stave 3

Loghain twisted in the bed again, unable to find a comfortable spot. He punched his pillow, angry with the spirit and Maric and the world in general because he couldn’t stop thinking about everything he’d seen. He sighed loudly, turning over again, blinking at the bright light that shone in through his door.

Bright light? He sat up, tossing off the covers, striding toward the door. That door had been closed when he went to sleep, and the light was entirely too bright to be coming from a candle. It was almost a relief to think of this being the second spirit—maybe if he got through them all quickly, he could go back to bed. It was a vain hope, he knew that, but it kept him from having to admit the possibility that he might believe in this ridiculous farce.

Throwing a dressing gown on over his nightshirt, he strode to the open door, putting a hand up to shield his eyes from the brightness. To his surprise, instead of standing in the hallway of the palace, he stood in a large room, in which a gigantic man in silverite armor sat in the midst of an entire armory’s worth of weapons—all kinds, from daggers to giant mauls to crossbows. Loghain could only dream of supplying his men from an armory this vast.

The gigantic man turned, grinning widely. “Ah, Loghain, there you are. I thought you were going to sleep forever.”

“I wish,” Loghain grunted. “What’s all this, then?”

“It’s the eve of battle, of course. Time to make preparations for war!”

“I thought that’s what I was doing.”

“You have been. Would you like to see how it’s going?”

“You say that as though I have a choice,” Loghain grumbled. “Let’s get on with it.”

“As you wish, Loghain.” The giant spirit put down the sword he was polishing. “I think you’ll find this quite educational.”

“Educational,” Loghain repeated. “I can’t wait.”

The spirit held out a massive silverite shield with a dragon emblazoned on it in red. Loghain’s eyes were drawn to the open mouth of the dragon, the glittering eye. He felt a momentary dizziness and out of the corner of his eye saw a swirl of colors come to a halt.

Disoriented, he blinked hard at the gray blur in front of him until it coalesced into a stone wall. A familiar stone wall. It was, in fact, the dungeon of Fort Drakon, where he had been just this morning. Was that this morning? It seemed like last year suddenly. It had, he reflected, been a long night. 

The spirit didn’t say anything, merely stood looking at him expectantly. 

“Fine,” Loghain muttered. He turned around, looking into the cell, seeing exactly what he had expected—the bastard and the Cousland, sitting on the stone floor in their smallclothes. All right, he conceded, stripping them had been unnecessary. They did look awfully cold. He’d never been that friendly with the Couslands, but he could imagine what Eleanor Cousland would say to him if she saw what he’d done to her son. He shuddered at the thought. 

“Well?” Alistair asked. “What would you eat, if you could eat anything?”

“What difference does it make, Alistair?” snapped the Cousland. “We’re in a jail cell, and breakfast is likely to be more stale bread and water, just like dinner was.”

“Right. The night’s going to be equally long whether we sit here and rage against fate, or find something interesting to talk about.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “Duncan taught me that.”

“Where was all this philosophy after Ostagar, then?” the Cousland asked angrily.

There was silence in the cell as Alistair stared at his friend and the Cousland looked away, flushing.

“All right,” groaned the Cousland at last. “Anything but your famous pea and lamb stew, then.”

“Hey!” Alistair said, but he grinned at his friend. “See, Donal, was that so hard?”

“You’re impossible,” the Cousland said.

“I try,” said Alistair, looking unconvincingly modest. “Now, what do we think about getting out of here?”

If he closed his eyes, Loghain could easily imagine Maric sitting in the young man’s place. He wondered how different things might have been if Alistair had been raised in the palace, had been allowed to know his father and brother. 

“Something on your mind?” the giant spirit queried.

“Don’t start,” Loghain snapped. He was getting a bit tired of these spirits and their more-knowing-than-thou looks.

“Shall we move on, then?” asked the spirit. Loghain pretended not to see the hint of a smile in his eyes.

Loghain cast a last glance into the cell, where a blond head and a dark one were bent together, discussing plans for escape. He nodded at the spirit, and the room spun into the uniform dull grey of a Fereldan Saturday night stew.

When the swirling stopped, he found himself in an even more familiar location—Anora’s bedroom, restful in soft blues. Blinking, Loghain looked around the room, looking for his daughter. With her current girth, it would be hard to miss her, he thought.

The sound of her crying reached his ears before he saw her. She was in a chair with her back to him, bent over her belly, and she was weeping. Soft, hurt little sounds came from her as she rocked back and forth.

Anora’s tears were rare ones. Falling down and skinning a knee had never drawn them from her, nor had the small disappointments of childhood. She had hidden them from him when Celia died. Only when the grief had been too much had the tears overflowed, and on those occasions, Loghain was filled with a deep need to solve the problem, to hurt whoever had made her cry.

He walked closer to the chair. There were unintelligible syllables coming from her, and Loghain strained to hear the words. His daughter was a cypher to him, an enigma, so quiet in her patrician calmness. Anything that helped him to know her better, to know what she was thinking, was precious.

The word, finally deciphered, rocked Loghain back on his feet. “Cailan!” 

Cailan! That foolish glory-seeking child? Loghain felt the blood drain from his face. It had never occurred to him that Anora might mourn the boy. He hadn’t known she liked Cailan, much less that she’d loved him enough to weep over him. And Loghain’s own orders had left the boy to die on the battlefield, torn apart by an ogre, so he understood. Had Anora heard those rumors? Of course she had. Teagan had asked Loghain about Ostagar right in front of Anora—she must know what he had done.

Loghain dropped his head into his hands. No wonder she was so quiet these days. She must despise him. He groaned deeply.

A large hand fell on his shoulder, squeezing. Loghain looked up to find the spirit watching him kindly. He started to speak, but what was there to say? He’d let his daughter’s husband, his grandchild’s father, die on the field of battle, and he hadn’t lifted a finger to help the boy. Hadn’t tried to dissuade him from his mad, doomed battle plan, hadn’t supported the plan. He might say to himself that it was all to save his own army, that the country was well rid of those Orlesian puppets, the Grey Wardens, but to others it looked as though he had withdrawn on purpose to kill the lad. To others? To Anora it must look like that—and Loghain had never said a word to her, never tried to explain himself. No wonder she wept alone.

Loghain moved toward his daughter. He wanted nothing more than to hold her, tell her how sorry he was, and forgot that she couldn’t see or hear him. “Anora,” he said. She straightened, wiping at her tears with her sleeve—an action she never would have allowed herself in front of others. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she stood up, walking to her washstand and washing her face. 

The change in her demeanor reminded Loghain that he wasn’t actually here in her bedroom watching her weep. Once again, he was far away from her when she needed him most. Like he’d been for most of her life. He turned to the spirit. “Get me out of here,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t care where.”

The giant spirit nodded, and the room whirled about Loghain in a wash of blue. 

He found himself back in another of today’s stops—the ramshackle hut in the Alienage where several elves, including Cyrion, sat in a cage, shackled together. It made Loghain angry. What was a member of his Night Elves doing just sitting there? Why didn’t the man get up and try to get himself out of there? Even Maric’s bastard was trying to escape, and he hadn’t been specially trained by Loghain himself.

Stepping forward, Loghain reached for the bars, ready to shake them, to yell at Cyrion. When his hands passed through the bars, he made a strangled noise of frustration, having forgotten again that he wasn’t really here.

Cyrion leaned forward, resting his forehead on the bars. A brown-haired elf in the cage with him was going on about something. Loghain heard his own name, and turned to look at the brown-haired elf. 

“I can’t believe you can sit in here and defend that black-hearted bastard, Cyrion. He’s sold us into slavery, for the Maker’s sake! What kind of man sells his own people to another nation?!”

Shoulders slumping, Cyrion sighed. “You didn’t know him, Elion. Whatever he’s done now, the Loghain Mac Tir I knew in the rebellion had nothing but the best interests of Ferelden at heart.”

“Selling us to the Tevinters is in the best interests of Ferelden?” Elion spat on the ground. “The humans’ Ferelden, maybe.”

“What does it matter?” A third elf spoke from the back of the cage. “The Blight is spreading across the country. The darkspawn are coming for all of us—in Ferelden, or in Tevinter.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cyrion said. 

“Just because Bann Vaughan killed your son doesn’t mean the rest of us have to give up and die,” Elion snapped. Cyrion looked sadly at him, and Elion had the grace to look away and shut up. 

Loghain swallowed. He hadn’t even known Cyrion was in Denerim, much less that he had a son who had been killed by Bann Vaughan, that drunken wastrel. Vaughan had in his turn been killed in Rendon Howe’s dungeon—by Alistair, if Loghain recalled correctly. He hadn’t known the bastard had it in him. Looking at Cyrion, Loghain wondered where the other Night Elves were. Tevinter, probably, he thought, his lips twisting bitterly. Shouldn’t he have kept up with them? Paid attention to where they went? Instead, he had gone on about his life, allowing the elves to sink further into poverty and squalor, and now he was selling them for coin, as casually as if they had been so much firewood. 

Guilt rose in his mouth, a sick, sour taste that had him swallowing thickly. In his distraction, he didn’t notice the Tevinters coming in. One of them, the dark-haired elf he’d spoken to this morning, unlocked the cage. She grabbed Cyrion by the arm, dragging him from the cage. “Time to go, knife-ears,” she said. Cyrion didn’t look up. He stood, his head hanging, already defeated, while a voice in Loghain’s head called out to the former Night Elf to fight, to hit the Tevinter elf in the face, to run for it!

“Why doesn’t he fight?” Loghain asked the spirit as Cyrion walked off unresistingly with the Tevinter, the other elves being dragged along behind them. “Why doesn’t he resist?”

“He has nothing to fight for,” the giant spirit said, and Loghain could see tears shining in the spirit’s eyes, as though he suffered along with Cyrion. 

Loghain’s stomach convulsed, and he turned, vomiting onto the filthy floor. How Maric would love this picture, he thought. The great Loghain Mac Tir, spewing his guts onto the floor over an elf. It was the   
kind of delicious irony Maric would never have let him live down.

“Are you ready?” the spirit asked. There was steel in his tone now, and Loghain wouldn’t have dared defy him.

“I’m ready,” he said.

Over what seemed like hours, the spirit took Loghain far across the kingdom and back. They sat in the depths of the Deep Roads with the Legion of the Dead, as they discussed the Blight that gave them a rest   
from their ceaseless fight against the darkspawn. They went to dead, blasted Lothering and saw those few who were left gibbering madly in the final throes of taint sickness. They visited the burnt remains of Castle Cousland in Highever, where Loghain saw Fergus Cousland, miraculously alive, weeping over the gruesome remains of his family. They flew to the Circle Tower, where the shell-shocked mages and Templars were struggling to bury the bodies and make order out of the chaos. They went into a small village in the Bannorn, where the villagers were hastily throwing their belongings into whatever carrying vessel they could find, preparing to flee the approaching darkspawn. Finally, they walked through the alleys of Denerim, and Loghain recoiled from the sounds and the smells and the sheer number of people pressing in from every side.

Two children sat huddled together against a wall, a piece of fabric rigged haphazardly above them in an attempt to keep off the ever-present rain. As Loghain watched, a young man came down the alley, his eyes glittering with fever. He looked furtively around, then snatched the fabric away and hobbled rapidly away while the children clung to one another forlornly.

Loghain pressed his lips together tightly. This was his city, his country, and these were the times it had fallen on under his very eye. 

The spirit spoke, and his voice was no longer genial. He appeared suddenly huge and warlike, and his voice rumbled like rocks rolling down a mountain. “Do you see now, Loghain Mac Tir, what you have brought in your fanaticism and your paranoia? The future of your country lies trembling before you, just as these children do, and you would leave it defenceless! Beware the sibilant whispers of Fear, for she has power to cloud the mind and rob the spirit of all that gives life.”

A bright slash of lightning lit the sky, and thunder rumbled, deep and heavy. Loghain looked up involuntarily, and when he looked back at the spirit, it was no longer there. He looked around him, startled, and saw that the alley was empty now, shadows crowding all around him. As he watched, one shadow detached itself from the others and glided toward him, its utter blackness sending a chill down Loghain’s spine. He stood his ground, waiting, as it approached him.


	4. Stave 4

The shadow stretched forth a dark hand, a finger beckoning to Loghain. He walked toward it, feeling an unmanly tremble in his knees. “Shadow,” he whispered huskily, “as your fellows have shown me the past and the present, is it true that you are here to show me the future?”

The shadow’s head dipped slightly in what Loghain took to be assent. 

“I have learned much already,” Loghain said, surprised to find that it was the truth. Many things seemed clearer now than they had been when Maric’s dripping ghost arrived this evening. “Take me to what you want to show me.”

The spirit expanded, the blackness growing until it enveloped him. Loghain struggled against an overwhelming sense of suffocation.

There was a field of mud spread out before him, the ever-present rain falling into the puddles. As Loghain moved forward, he couldn’t at first see what the spirit wanted to show him. And then he saw it, the two mounded graves and the woman who knelt at their side. When he came up next to her, he saw that she was red-haired and pretty. And that she was crying as she laid a single rose on the muddy grave before her.

He recognized the blond elf who came up behind her. It was the Crow he had hired to kill the Grey Wardens. What was he doing here?

“Leliana,” the Crow said. “We have to go. Isabela is waiting for us, but she is anxious to get under way. The horde is coming.”

“How can I leave him?” The red-head had an Orlesian accent, Loghain noticed. Where had she come from? And whose were these graves?

“Alistair is gone, Leliana,” the Crow said, his voice gentle but his hands firm as he tugged her to her feet. “And Donal with him. There is nothing left for you here.”

“Didn’t Loghain know that by killing the Grey Wardens, he almost certainly doomed us all?”

“Remember that we did not know that until Riordan told us,” the Crow answered. “Now, please, Leliana, let him rest. He would not want you to die here, mourning him.” The Crow’s eyes sought the other grave, apparently the Cousland’s, and rested on it for a moment. Then he walked off with the Orlesian red-head leaning against him.

“’Doomed us all’?” Loghain echoed. “What could that mean?” The spirit didn’t respond—it just stood there in all its empty blackness. Loghain snorted. “Typical Antivan dramatics,” he said scornfully. But deep down, he didn’t believe it. Something told him that he wouldn’t have been shown this scene if there hadn’t been a lesson to take away from it. He looked at the two sad graves, all alone in the rain and mud, forgotten. Was this really what he contemplated doing with these two young men? Executing them? To whose benefit? He didn’t seem to know anymore, he who had been so sure.

Turning toward the spirit, he started to tell it he was ready to go, but the blackness met him before he could speak. Loghain felt as if he were swallowing the darkness, choking on it, and he fought to breathe within it.

At first, he couldn’t tell that the shadow had receded. The darkness didn’t lift as he had expected it to, and he blinked hard, trying to clear his vision. But it didn’t clear, and he looked up into lowering dark grey skies. He was standing in the Alienage, but no one was there. It was completely deserted. The buildings leaned at crazy angles, there was evidence of recent fires, and even the usual mass of stray dogs and orphaned children was missing. 

Wind whipped between the buildings, chilling Loghain even though he wasn’t really standing there. “Where is everyone?” he asked the shadow spirit, but it didn’t—couldn’t?—speak. And he didn’t need it to; he knew the answer. No one was here because he had sold them to the Tevinters. The elves were gone from Denerim—and he was the one who had sent them away.

As he stood looking around, shoulders hunched against the cold he couldn’t feel, he heard voices. When the owners of the voices came closer, he recognized them—sycophants who hung on every word of those more powerful than they. A pinched-faced woman with black hair that hadn’t been that color naturally in years and a balding, heavyset man. The woman was Bann Esmerelle of Amaranthine, but the fat man’s name escaped him.

“Is it safe?” the man asked, looking around him nervously. “What if there are still darkspawn here?”

“They’ve come and gone,” Esmerelle said. “What remains is fair game for those of us who are left alive.” She walked a few more steps, curling her lip in disgust at the debris under her boots. “I always did say that what was needed in these Alienages was to get rid of everyone, burn it down, and start over. Look how those low creatures lived.”

“No matter what you can say about King Loghain the Last,” the balding man said, “at least he rid Denerim of those pesky elves.”

“Yes.” Esmerelle looked appraisingly around. “Once the Orlesians finally end this dreadful Blight, we can rebuild here. I believe it would make a lovely estate. And after that … we can clear out all the other Alienages and perhaps see about removing those Dalish, as well.” 

“An excellent idea!” The balding man looked at her eagerly, awaiting her approval of his approval. It didn’t come. Esmerelle didn’t bother to acknowledge him. She moved on through what was left of the Alienage, the balding man’s head bobbing with his enthusiasm for everything she said.

“The Orlesians!” Loghain exploded, staring after them. “Why in the name of Andraste is a Fereldan noble looking to the Orlesians to end the Blight?!” He looked indignantly at the spirit, which didn’t respond, unless what Loghain took to be a deepening of its darkness was some kind of answer. “I suppose you’ll say somehow that was my fault,” he muttered, feeling like a chastened child. Was that what the red-headed woman had meant when she said Loghain had doomed them all? Were the Grey Wardens somehow necessary to end the Blight? Would killing the Grey Wardens open the door for the Orlesians to retake a Blight- and civil war-ravaged Ferelden? He groaned, his head pounding with unanswered questions. 

The spirit’s head continued to face him—or, at least, he thought it did; the absence of features made it hard to tell for sure—and it looked disapproving. Or was that his imagination?

Loghain sighed heavily, searching for the anger that always sustained him, but the only anger he could find within himself was directed toward … himself. “Take me to the next place,” he muttered sullenly. “It has to be better than this.”

He had an even harder time not striking out at the enveloping blackness than he had before. More than anything, he wanted his corporeal form back, wanted to find something—someone—to hit. Here, Loghain thought despairingly, was where everything had gone wrong. He was a soldier, a man who wanted only to be pointed toward an enemy he could fight. And instead he had spent his life trying to understand politics, to run a country. No wonder he had bollocksed things up so royally.

The darkness receded partially—a dim light pierced through, along with the thin wail of a baby. He moved through the dimness to see a scrawny little infant lying in a drawer on the floor, shrieking feebly. Even to Loghain’s inexperienced eye, it was clear the child was ill. But where was its mother?

He looked around the room, and he saw a woman sprawled on the bed. She had blonde hair wildly tangled, and on the parts of her body exposed, he could see blackened flesh. The woman was far gone with darkspawn taint. She stirred under the insistent cry of the baby, turning her head on the pillow, and Loghain cried out in horror, tripping over his own feet in his attempt to back up and somehow flee this room.

The woman in the bed was his daughter, barely recognizable under the black splotches that nearly covered her face. “No,” Loghain whispered, going down on his knees next to the bed. “No, no, no. Spirit!” he said desperately, looking at the shadow as it hovered in the corner of the room. “Please, no.” He turned to look at the child, his grandson, as its wails began to subside. Now that he looked closer, Loghain could see under the edge of the filthy grey blanket a black splotch on the baby’s delicate chest, and he found himself weeping as he tried to reach out to touch the child and couldn’t.

As he knelt there, watching as the baby’s breathing began to slow, the door rattled, and a heavy-set woman came in, followed by a skinny little man with greasy black hair. 

The woman looked around the room, clucking her tongue. “I’ll never get the smell out. And we’ll have to burn all the bedding. We shouldn’t have taken her in in the first place.”

“She was carrying a rather large amount of gold,” the little man said. 

“Good thing gold doesn’t carry taint,” the woman said, a smug smile crossing her face. She looked dispassionately down at the infant, now still in its makeshift bed. “Neither of these’ll be needing that gold any longer.”

“You think she was really the Queen?” the man said.

“Poor lass, if she was,” said the woman. “Her father sure didn’t help her none.”

“They say he’s still out there somewhere, thinkin’ he can stop the Blight.”

The woman snorted. “Too late for that now. Not enough of Ferelden left to be worth saving.”

Loghain watched, horrified and grief-stricken, as the two left the room, only to return with three big, burly men who bundled the two bodies in sheets and carried them out. Two of those men showed black splotches of taint on their skin, as well, he noted, and he wasn’t sorry to see it.

He almost welcomed the black shadow as it spread over him this time. Part of him wished it would swallow him completely, take him to the Fade where he could relieve his frustrations by punching Maric out once and for all. Because if all this was anyone’s fault, it was clearly Maric’s. Damn Maric, he thought, angrily wiping a tear away.

When the shadow receded, he found himself on a battlefield. The most horrific battlefield he’d ever seen, which was saying something. The sights and smells were enough to turn his stomach—and he was glad for it. Nausea was easier to bear than grief. 

It was immediately clear that the darkspawn weren’t winning this battle—they had already won. A small, pathetic remnant of an army stood against the horde, but anyone could have seen that they were already defeated. He and the spirit stood, looking down at the battle, watching as man after man was overpowered and taken down. It was obvious to Loghain that these men were sacrificing themselves, clearing the thinnest of paths so that one man, a man in heavy silverite armor, could battle his way to the Archdemon as it shrieked and screamed. 

He got there with a few men still remaining to support his attack on the Archdemon. By the time Loghain saw himself astride the dragon’s neck, all the other men were gone, sucked down into the great mass of the darkspawn. Loghain on the field raised his sword, driving it straight into the brain of the Archdemon. It screamed, falling over, Loghain’s sword still embedded into its skull. The watching Loghain felt his chest expand. There was hope, then. The Blight could be ended; he could end it for his people.

And then he watched as the dragon’s body shriveled away until it was nothing more than a dead genlock on the field, and a nearby hurlock rose into the air, a blue mist swirling around it. The hurlock grew, expanding bit by bit until it was no longer a hurlock, but a dragon. And Loghain knew utter defeat as he watched himself, kneeling on the field in exhaustion, caught up in those massive jaws. He saw his own neck snap as the Archdemon shook him in midair.

His heart pounded, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Would this be his end? To die like Cailan on a tainted battlefield, leaving his country to rot under the darkspawn’s feet? He turned to the spirit, falling to his knees, babbling out his desperate prayer. “Please tell me this isn’t inevitable. Tell me these scenes can be changed, that I can change. Spirit, break your silence and tell me that this fate, this blackness, does not have to be. Please, spirit!”

The darkness seemed to move, rippling slightly as though the spirit wept. Loghain grasped at this small possibility eagerly. 

“Why should you show me all this if there is no way to repair it?” Loghain said, as much to himself as to the spirit. “I have to be able to change this future, to save my country and my grandchild. And Maric’s son. Tell me I can do this!” he shouted at the spirit.

The darkness rippled further, nearly shaking. 

“I see now that I have been a blind, obsessed fool,” Loghain said. “My decisions have brought us to the brink of doom. But I can do better. If I only have the chance, I promise to do better.” He looked up at the spirit beseechingly, only to find that the darkness was thinning, receding, until he could see the fire in his bedroom through the dim barrier of what was left of the spirit.

Finally, the spirit was gone, and Loghain was alone.


	5. Stave 5

Loghain got up off of his knees, looking around his chamber. He was alone. All the spirits had gone. The Loghain of earlier, the one who had existed before Maric’s ghost had sat dripping in his armchair, would have pretended the spirits had never been there at all, and gone about his day, thinking nothing more about it.

Not now. Loghain walked across the room, throwing open the heavy damask curtains to view the grey light of dawn. It was a new day—not just for him, but for all of Ferelden. And there was no time to lose.

Energized, he threw off his nightshirt, getting dressed swiftly. His fingers shook with excitement, so that he could barely buckle his armor. 

As he was moving swiftly through the palace, his daughter’s maid caught up with him. “Sire,” she said, “your daughter is asking for you.”

Loghain stopped short. He couldn’t see Anora yet. Other things had to be set right, he had to have something good to bring her when he went to apologize for what he’d done to her husband. “Tell my daughter I will come and see her later. I have … much to do this morning.”

The maid’s eyes flashed briefly with something he couldn’t define, but she bowed her head. “Yes, sire.”

He strode through the puddles toward the Alienage. The Tevinters outside the ramshackle building looked surprised to see him, but he pushed past them brusquely. Inside the building, he looked immediately for the cage where Cyrion and the others had been kept. As he had expected, they were gone—the scene the spirit had shown him had been accurate. One of the Tevinters started to ask him a question, but Loghain ignored the man, hurrying out of the hovel and through the alleys to the room where the elves waited to be loaded onto the Tevinter ships. The mage in charge, Caladrius, looked up as Loghain came in.

“Yes, sire,” Caladrius said impatiently, the honorific dripping with sarcasm. “The next shipment of gold is due to arrive tonight. We were just preparing the goods.” He motioned to the cages lining the walls.

Loghain started to order Caladrius to let the elves go. Then he looked around him, noticing the sheer number of the Tevinters. What had he been thinking, walking in here alone? These men were never going to turn the elves loose on his request, and he had no backup. 

“I want to review them,” he said. “Get them out of there.”

“You can review them in the cages just as well,” Caladrius said, surprised. 

“What’s it to you?” Loghain snapped. “I want to see them out of the cages. One of them … has some information I need, but I’m not certain which it is.”

Caladrius shrugged. “As you will.” He motioned to his guards to let the elves out. They shuffled forward, their eyes downcast, the picture of abject defeat. But Loghain knew not all of them were defeated. He looked for Elion, the brown-haired elf who had challenged Cyrion.

There he was, at the end. Loghain moved to stand in front of him. “Look at me, elf,” he commanded. Elion looked up, his eyes smoldering with anger. “What kind of man sells his own people for money?” he asked, echoing Elion’s words from last night. He kept his voice low, so only the elves on either side of Elion could hear him. “Sometimes even a black-hearted bastard can have a change of heart.” Elion’s eyes widened. “Will you help me?”

Elion’s brow furrowed, and he shrank back slightly, as though expecting some kind of trick.

“I mean it,” Loghain said urgently. “Will you help me fight?” He looked at the elves standing on either side of Elion, knowing they had heard the question. One, a red-headed man, clenched his fist, nodding slightly. The other, a blonde woman, looked at Elion in confusion, waiting for his decision.

Elion looked down the long row of dejected, unarmed, unarmored elves, then at the slightly shorter row of Tevinter archers. His eyes met Loghain’s with derision. “Aren’t we worth more alive?” he said quietly.

“Don’t you want to show them what Fereldan elves are made of?” Loghain stepped back. He cleared his throat, raising his voice. “Elves of Denerim! You are here because of one man’s greed and blindness. I can never apologize enough for what I have done—but it ends here! Join me, and let’s send these Tevinters back where they came from!”

Everyone in the room stared at him, dumbfounded, for a long second. Having expected that reaction, Loghain pulled the dagger he always carried and threw it in one swift motion. It embedded itself exactly where he wanted it, he thought with pride—in Caladrius’s throat. The elves still stood, staring, except for Elion and the red-headed man beside him, who ran forward, attacking one of the Tevinter archers.

The Tevinter archers were in motion by then, arrows flying. Loghain drew his sword and closed with one of them, but the others aimed for the unprotected elves, two of whom fell on the first volley.

“Don’t just stand there! You outnumber them!” Loghain shouted. His sword found a weak spot in the archer’s armor, driving home. The elves, several of them wounded, scrambled to find cover, except for two or three who joined Elion and his friend in the fray. Elion had taken a dagger from one of the Tevinters. “Cyrion!” Loghain shouted. “We fought together once, and we drove the Orlesians from our country! Let us do the same with these men!”

Cyrion’s head snapped up, and something in his face changed, the apathy fading. Another elf, hiding behind a crate, shouted, “Your country, Loghain! Why should we fight for it?”

“Because if you don’t, who’s left to fight for your wives and your children?” Loghain slashed at an archer viciously. It was good to have form, to have a sword in his hand and something in front of him to fight. “Get up, you elves! No one can keep you down if you band together and fight for yourselves—not even me! GET UP!”

Cyrion was infected with the adrenaline and spirit that filled the room, and charged into the fray, his fists swinging, and most of the other elves followed him. 

When the fight was over, and the Tevinters had been defeated, Cyrion looked at Loghain. “Why?”

“A friend … helped me,” Loghain said. It wasn’t quite the right word, but he could hardly explain about Maric’s ghost. “I am sorry about your son, Cyrion. If I—I know I can’t change what happened, or what I’ve done, but I would like to work together to make a better future for your people.” He held out his hand, surprised to see that it trembled slightly as he waited to see if the elf would take it. 

It took a minute. A long minute. But the elf reached forward, and the two men clasped hands. 

“Thank you,” Loghain breathed. “You won’t be sorry. I promise.”

It wasn’t quite as easy as that. There were the wounded elves to care for and the fallen to mourn; the rest of the Tevinters to deal with; the other elves of the Alienage to speak to; more apologies to make; more promises. It would be a long climb to build trust between them. But as Loghain left the Alienage at last, he felt heartened that the first steps had been taken toward a new age for the elves of Ferelden.

As he hurried toward Fort Drakon, Loghain realized that for the first time in days, it wasn’t raining.

The fact that none of the guards in Fort Drakon would look him in the eye should have been a clue. The extreme difficulty he had finding the jailer with the keys should have been another. Having heard Alistair mention escape the night before should have readied Loghain for the possibility. But in his haste and eagerness, Loghain didn’t stop to consider any of these things, and so he wasn’t at all prepared to come into the dungeon and find the Grey Wardens’ cell empty.

He turned on the jailer. “Where are they?!”

“I don’t know, my lord. They were just gone when we came in this morning.” The man shrank away from Loghain, as if expecting to be hit.

“Well, where do you think they’ve gone, then?” Loghain didn’t wait for an answer to the rhetorical question. The jailer wouldn’t really know, and he did, once he thought about it: they were at Eamon’s estate. Eamon would move mountains to see that Loghain didn’t get anywhere near his precious Alistair, representing as he did Eamon’s only chance to seize power in Ferelden. 

On the steps of Fort Drakon, a messenger from the palace caught him. “Sire, your daughter,” the messenger gasped, “is most desirous of your presence.”

Loghain stopped, looking at the messenger. He’d started to fix the mistakes he’d made with the elves, but he needed to set things right with Alistair, to make his peace with Maric’s son, before he could approach his daughter and feel that he had truly made a fresh start. “Tell her I’ll see her later,” he said brusquely to the messenger, pushing past on his way down the steps.

“But, sire!” the messenger called after him. Loghain barely heard the man, his entire focus on the sticky problem of how to approach Alistair and the Cousland in Eamon’s estate.

On his way to Eamon’s estate, he passed through the market district. The leader of Denerim’s guards, Sergeant Kylon, was speaking with a couple of heavily armored men. Loghain assumed at first that these were guardsmen, but then he saw that the men were accompanied by the red-headed woman, the Orlesian who had knelt at Alistair’s grave. He stopped short, looking closely at the armored men. It was the Wardens! But to approach them here, in the marketplace, would probably provoke the Wardens to attack him. He ducked behind a display of weaponry, making a show of looking at an ornamented dagger while covertly keeping an eye on the Wardens. 

They left Kylon, moving purposefully through the marketplace. Alistair was the taller, but he hung back, letting the Cousland take the lead. Just as Maric had, Loghain thought with a pang. To his surprise, the Wardens and their party—which included that preachy old mage, Wynne, he noticed now—went into the Gnawed Noble. That seemed like a foolhardy place to show themselves, knowing they were wanted, he thought. He followed them cautiously. 

By the time he reached the doors of the Noble, a stream of rowdy men was exiting the establishment. The Crimson Oars, Loghain realized. How in Thedas had the Wardens managed to eject them from the Noble? Kylon’s men had tried several times, to no avail.

As soon as the doorway was cleared, he hurried in, hoping to find the Wardens still in the Crimson Oars’ back room. The bartender recognized Loghain as he entered.

“They’s in there, sire!” called the bartender. “I di’n’t know who it was, ser, honest!” 

Loghain ignored the weasel, and threw the door open. Immediately upon stepping into the room, he was faced with the business end of two blades and a bow, the mage readying a spell. He pressed himself back against the door. “I mean you no harm,” he said.

“You’ll forgive us if we don’t believe you,” the Cousland said.

“If I meant to harm you, would I be here alone?”

“Who knows what you would do?” Alistair said. “You’ve proved you can’t be trusted.”

Looking into the hazel eyes, hard with suspicion and anger, Loghain was struck all over again by the extraordinary resemblance to Maric. “Your father was my best friend, lad. Did you know that?” he asked gently.

“I knew it,” Alistair said. The sword point at Loghain’s throat didn’t waver.

“He was the most irritating man I ever met,” Loghain went on, “but you couldn’t help liking him. No matter how many stupid mistakes he made, how much he inadvertently hurt people, he always … believed. Maybe not in himself, but he believed in people. That everyone deserved a second chance.”

“And you think I should give you one?” Alistair laughed bitterly. “Give me one good reason not to run you through right here.”

Loghain’s eyes shifted, and he looked over Alistair’s shoulder at the Orlesian girl. She had put her bow away and was watching Alistair, her blue eyes wide and trusting. He looked back at Alistair. “Because you’re a good man,” he said simply. “Like your father.”

Alistair swallowed hard, and the sword point shifted for the first time. “So were the men you left to die on the battlefield at Ostagar,” he whispered. “You showed them no mercy.”

“I thought … I didn’t understand the purpose of the Grey Wardens,” Loghain said. “I thought they were nothing but pawns of the Orlesians. I know better now.”

“You do, do you?” the Cousland broke in skeptically. “Right.”

“What is it that you want, Loghain?” Alistair asked.

“I want to stop all this,” Loghain said. “I … My best friend wanted me to save his son. I find that I want that, too,” he admitted. “Let us try and find a middle ground somewhere,” he pleaded. 

“It’s a trick,” Alistair said, but his tone was unconvinced.

“I think he means it,” the Orlesian said. She was looking closely at Loghain. “We should give him a chance.” She laid a hand on Alistair’s arm, and his eyes softened as he looked at her. “What will it hurt to listen?” she asked him.

The Cousland moved first, his blade finding the sheath with a clank. “It’s better than going back to jail, brother,” he said to Alistair.

“How can you say that, Donal? After everything?”

“Because Duncan was a practical man,” the Cousland said. “He’d have said that we can’t save Ferelden while fighting amongst ourselves.”

“How do you know?” Alistair asked.

“Because of everything you’ve told me,” the Cousland said. He and the Orlesian stood close to Alistair, waiting, as the boy fought with himself.

At last the sword point moved. “Talk,” Alistair said shortly. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”

Set free, Loghain’s mind went momentarily blank. Why shouldn’t the boy kill him? He’d done everything he was accused of. He’d left Duncan and Cailan on the battlefield, when he could have fought Cailan’s stupid and grandiose plan. He’d sold the elves, he’d turned a blind eye when Rendon Howe murdered the Couslands in their own home. At last he said, “I loved your father, boy. You are … strikingly like him, and not just in looks. Where Cailan saw only the glory of battle, Maric saw his people, and he suffered for each drop of Fereldan blood that fell. You do, too. I see that. I was … wrong to paint an entire order with the Orlesian brush, wrong not to give them a chance to at least explain their purpose,” he said. “Cailan was having secret meetings with the Empress. I didn’t know what it was that he intended, but I knew … we fought hard to take back our country. I couldn’t let it fall again, not because of a glory-hungry puppy who cared more for his own martial prowess than the good of his country. I am sorry for those who were caught in the middle between Cailan’s arrogance—and mine.”

Alistair’s eyes faltered. He’d known, then, known enough of his brother’s weakness to recognize the truth when he heard it. 

“If not for the sake of your father, boy, forgive me for the sake of all the Fereldans who will need your blade in their defense. Together, your little group is formidable. You’ve led me a merry dance,” Loghain admitted. “With my backing and my knowledge of battle tactics, we can end this Blight. Then, when the Archdemon is defeated … if you still don’t believe that I am truly sorry, you can try to kill me. My word on it,” he said. For the second time that day, he reached out a trembling hand, reaching for another man’s forgiveness.

The boy’s eyes were wary as he studied Loghain, but slowly, and with only the slightest nudge from the Orlesian girl, his arm came forward, and he took Loghain’s hand, albeit gingerly.

Loghain could have wept with relief, if weeping had been a thing he allowed himself to do. “You won’t regret this,” he promised instead. “Now, you are all welcome to come to the palace, to meet my daughter. I want—to talk to you,” he said to Alistair. “To tell you about your father. If you’re ever in the mood to hear about him from me.”

The hazel eyes lightened somewhat. “Perhaps. Someday.”

It was as much as Loghain could have hoped for. And when he stepped out of the Gnawed Noble, the sun was shining on Denerim, drying the puddles and warming him all through, just as if Maric was smiling down at him. Loghain was nearly giddy as he turned his steps toward the palace, eager to tell Anora everything. 

The messenger caught him almost immediately. “Sire, your daughter …” the messenger said.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” Loghain said, breaking into a smile. And then he noticed the messenger’s drawn face. “What? What is it?”

“The babe, sire. It’s … You must come quickly.”

Panic speared through Loghain. Had all this been for naught, then? Had he lost his grandson, and possibly his daughter, because yet again he hadn’t taken her seriously? “Maker, no,” he pleaded under his breath. He practically ran back into the Noble, relief soaking him when he found the Wardens and their party still there.

“Come back to tell us it’s all a big joke and we’re under arrest after all?” The Cousland asked, his hand on his sword hilt. 

Loghain ignored him, grasping Wynne’s sleeve. “Please, come quickly. You must help her!”

“Help who?”

“Anora. The baby! Please hurry.”

The mage nodded, already moving toward the door. “When we saw her yesterday, I thought she was nearly there.”

“It may have been—she sent for me this morning, but I … thought it could wait. I didn’t know the baby was coming.” Loghain heard himself babbling, but he seemed powerless to stop the words from tumbling out. “If anything happens … I’ll never forgive myself.”

The palace was nearly silent, all the servants looking drawn and worried. They got hastily out of the way as Loghain practically ran toward Anora’s room, dragging the mage along behind him. The rest of the party was close on her heels. 

He could hear his girl crying out in pain even through the door, and he nearly broke it down in his haste to get in there. He sank to his knees next to the bed as the mage immediately moved to begin examining her. Anora’s maid looked at Loghain, and at the mage, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The palace healers—pack of idiots, there more to rub Cailan’s back after a bout of sparring than out of any particular talent—protested only mildly when Wynne brusquely pushed them aside.

“You’re going to be fine,” she said soothingly to Anora. “And the babe. It’ll just take me a few minutes. Relax, if you can.” She looked at Loghain. “Talk to her!”

Loghain took Anora’s hand. “Norrie,” he said softly. He hadn’t called her that since she was a tiny girl in pigtails. “I’m here, Norrie. We’re going to get the baby out, I promise.”

“Father,” she said weakly. “Cailan …”

“I know, pet,” he said. “You don’t have to say it. It’s my fault he died, and you loved him, and I’m so sorry. If you’ll just please hold on, I’m going to make it up to you.”

“I never told him …”

“We’re not very good at telling people things, are we?” 

Anora groaned loudly as Wynne pushed at the baby inside her. Alistair was pressing down hard on Anora’s abdomen. 

“I’m going to get better at that,” Loghain said. “You are the light of my life, Anora, and I am so proud of you—your strength and your intelligence and your spirit. You are a credit to your mother.”

Her eyes shone with tears. “And my father,” she whispered. 

“All right,” said Wynne. “Push, my dear.”

Anora’s hand tightened on Loghain. “Father?”

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Shortly thereafter, the baby’s cry was heard—the healthy, lusty cry of a blond baby with the heirloom nose of his line, who was given the name of Maric Cailan Mac Tir Theirin, and who had his first nap in the arms of his Uncle Alistair.

Loghain was better than his word. He did everything he had promised, and much more. He became a revered figure to the elves, who forgave him his wrongs against their people when he led the efforts to clean up the Alienage and pushed for legislation that would make them equal citizens. To Alistair, who did not die killing the Archdemon, he was a mentor and, eventually, a friend. He learned to trust his daughter, who became Regent and was widely held to be the best ruler Ferelden had seen in an age, and to his grandson he was a tender and loving father figure. He never saw his old friend Maric’s spirit again, nor any of the others, but the memory of his night with them never left him. Though he never completely lost his gruff demeanor, he no longer carried his own personal thundercloud, and it was said of him that he knew how to bring sunshine, if anyone did.


End file.
